a place of your own
Another one of those evenings you are not quite sure were real. It was warm yesterday, almost seventy degrees, with a sky the color of fire. Soft breeze and so quiet! Hard to tell the season, but you sure wouldn’t guess late winter.
The garden is still asleep and in the balmy air suffused with purple orange glow I didn’t understand why. Everything in the surroundings conspired to defy reality, from the eerie silence with watercolor clouds to the absence of air movement.
There should be spring bulbs, it is too warm for them not to be, the whole season is out of sequence, put together like a collage.
Under the thin layer of barren leaves only the hellebores ventured to push through new foliage, the hellebores, almost a month late!
The yard debris bothers me but I wonder if I should wait to clean it up, to give the plants a little more protection if another chill comes around. It’s strange that the vegetation is dragging its feet, the garden seems in no rush to come back to life, no buds on the trees, no leaves on the rose shrubs, no spring flowers. I wonder why.
It got cold again this morning, and the lower temperatures brought with them a morose sky, one that matches the season.